


Five Centuries

by Shadow_Light13



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Abuse, Fights, Gen, Genocide, Illusions, Killing, Lies, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Past, Revenge, Violence, War, mentions of characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Light13/pseuds/Shadow_Light13
Summary: So many things can occur in five hundred years whilst the hatred burns deep inside you.Pitch knows that all too well.





	Five Centuries

Pitch had barely even managed to scramble up to the Earth's surface for five hundred years. 

With the Guardians growing so used to their power and adamant that he would not come back, Toothiana had in that time completely left her duties within the field, as she thought the boogeyman could not return to harm the children.

For five hundred years, he had not, battling his own demons, healing old wounds, gathering resources subtly and getting his fear from whatever other sources he could, just to stay alive. For five hundred years, no one had so much as mentioned the words _boogeyman _or _Nightmare King _or even an old go-to of his, _Noctus _which had many years ago been worshipped for being the name of an alleged God of the Night, of Safety and Dreams. Back then, he had too much confidence and was much too satisfied with his life to pick fights with every little threat. None could touch him whilst he had been mistakenly deemed a God. 

That changed and soon after people stopped worshipping Gods of "pagan" religions, things started going further south. He attempted to make up for his sudden drop in belief by seeking power from fear itself, desperate not to fall to the level of vulnerability that other spirits possessed. When you were a dark spirit, weakness was something you could not risk. You could not have. 

It would have been oh-so wonderful if he could admit his failings or lean back against someone without fear of mockery, humiliation, betrayal. Without needing to worry that someone would use it to manipulate him and take advantage of him. There were plenty of spirits who were willing to use another being. Spirits of Evil, of Hate, of Suffering, of Pain, of Misery, of Greed. If you were to fall into their grasp, you might never manage to get out of it alive... or in Pitch's case sane. Even now paranoia and a deeply-rooted fear of weakness showed within his aloof behaviour, every time he snapped, every time he'd tense up at any sign of warmth and every desperate and failed attempt to bring someone closer, only to try and turn it around when he felt that he would be rejected anyway. 

Then the Guardians showed up. 

They took whatever remained, whatever he still had control over. They stole the planet he could once admire and walk on the surface of, even the places where he could seek comfort and allies in times of need. His haunts and the places he looked over most were left half-destroyed. The few creatures and other spirits that still respected him were forced out of their home...

All because of him. 

With him the main enemy, every friend and acquaintance he had was now a target. 

With there being four of them - the moon's servants - he was greatly outnumbered and he knew it even then. They were all powerful and the faith people had in them grew, because they were deemed _sweet _and _good _by humans and thus were a much preferred option to the _evil _and _cruel _monster that was the boogeyman. Sanderson had made sure to _warn _children of him in their dreams, depicting Pitch himself as a child eating beast of a most foul and intimidating appearance. Perhaps at any other time he would have even applauded the little man for his brilliant attempt at scaring children, for it had almost given one of them a heart-attack. Yet, all it did was fuel the dislike for his kind and turn his friends doubtful. 

And so he had taken them to a new location, a new sanctuary, hidden and locked away... locking them away too. It had everything but access from and to the rest of the world. There he cut ties, knowing they would hate him for the lack of freedom, but believing that they would be worse off out there with the Guardians. Not wanting to see their own blood shed, he turned a supposed cold shoulder to them, placing on a neutral mask as he had told Sanderson, "oh, you really believed I _cared _for those pathetic scarecrows?" 

Sandy seemed unconvinced, right until Pitch managed to throw down a severed hand - which at the time had come from a dead person and had been slathered with pig's blood, but of course, it was all too easy to fake anything in front of a bunch of self-absorbed, arrogant fools - and smirked. "I even spared you the trouble." 

The taller spirit had seen the disgust in the shorter spirit's eyes and on his face. Unsurprisingly, there was no pity to be found there, not even for the deceased. Even so, the little man had made the choice of telling the Guardians. At first, he had hoped it would also intimidate them into keeping away, but instead, they decided to drive him off Earth. That did not end well, as cornered with an army of Pookan warriors, he was desperate enough to find a way out, that he'd gathered his fearlings. Those were hard to control, and possessed the ability to kill a person just as much as they could possess or terrify them and with their fairly low inhibitions, it was far too easy for them to slaughter a race. 

Something that would have been gruesome to watch, if it really had happened. 

Thankfully for Pitch, Aster - that furry bastard that threatened to wipe him from the universe and all memory of him too - had swallowed that down far too easily. The illusion of thousands of dead rabbit people struck fear in him so potent that it made it hard to stay away from the anthropomorphic animal and it took all his strength to pull back at least _some _of the fearlings. The rest were destroyed by a brutal and merciless creature covered in fur, with eyes a toxic green. Perhaps it had worked a little too well, leaving the leader of the fearlings substantially weaker. 

Even now, he heard, from time to time, the pained howls and cries of his minions as their were torn to shreds with daggers of light metal and boomerangs. The subsequent anger of the survivors as they attempted to destroy the race he had concealed beneath the Earth, exchanging their survival for their freedom and for the trust of his own soldiers. To safe their furry arses, Pitch chose to take blow after blow of the beings that had served him so long. 

Already his title of Nightmare King was dubious at best. 

Since then, he and the Guardians would meet time and time again, only a few years apart, once each side had regained their strengths. Each time he was weaker and there was less belief around. With the lacking of fear, people were starting to act reckless and in other places, his runaway fearlings caused chaos with the terror they did spread, starving after the battle. 

Swords would clash, blood would fall - contrary to the common belief, he bled and bled red - curses would be spat out and plans and plots would come into formation. Doing everything he could to have the advantage, he sought out anyone who had a grudge to hold against the Guardians, mistakenly opting to work with the Monkey King, until he saw his extremist views and acts, Krampus (until he caught him brutally murdering and killing a child), the Bunyip (naturally the creature despised Bunnymund though Pitch still wasn't on board with the whole human-eating business... so that deal was fairly short-lived) and Father Frost (who turned out to have lost his marbles a long time before he had met Pitch). None of those would last, of course, and in the end, the giant ape wound up dead, as well as the anti-Santa creature and Frost... neither of which were huge losses. After Bunyip disappeared, Australian Nessie refused the offer to work alongside him and Scottish Nessie chose to stay neutral rather than risk getting her head severed. Not that he could blame either of them. 

In the end, his attempts at working in a team failed, and he found the Guardians taking over. 

That was when people - adults, adolescents, children and even the senile and elderly - began walking through him, forcing his soul to be pulled back in an utmost horrid way as they did so, and forcing a sickening, weak feeling that belonged to someone experiencing their worst nightmare. At the time, it really had been his worst nightmare. And then, around circa 1510... all the rest of the belief anyone held for him was turned into nothing more but children's tales to make them behave. Even children were sceptical to these stores. 

He tried one more, fighting the Guardians head on, only to find himself driven into a cave, with a dagger through his body, bleeding and in excruciating pain. Rashes of a white colour covered his body as his blood was poisoned and his veins inflamed and swollen. His conscious state did not last long, even though he pushed himself to remove the dagger and everything before him turned into a blur. The spirits turned away as soon as they assumed him dead, as soon as he feigned a painful death, only to force his eyes open and live an even more painful existence, pushing the dagger out of his body and sliding onto the bloodstained rock below. With a bitter laugh, he lived off the ambition of spiting them and returning from his grave even as they now celebrated, believing that they had gotten rid of him once and for all. Blood gathered at his lips and on his tongue and he sank to the ground.

But you couldn't kill fear. 

Fear always survived, so long there was life in the world. Closing his eyes, he drew out a raspy breath before falling unconscious. 

It had taken 13 months to wake up. In a coma-like state, he floated through his memories, or what he retained of them, hearing voices. Accusations. Arguments. He could recall the meeting he had with his daughter who he could never have even assumed might have survived as it had been so long. So very long since he had seen her last. She had grown into a fierce woman. The same feeling one might get when a dagger was pushed into their back gathered deep inside him though when she accused him of purposefully forgetting her. Of becoming something shameful and disgusting. 

He had other memories, nicer ones, but all they did was make him wish he could be there, back in that time when things were better. They would never be that way. He knew that much. 

When he woke up, he was no longer in that cave. 

Tied and bound he had been left at the mercy of any passing by spirit. It just so happened to be the very ruler of Hell that had found him. So for the next ten years until he managed to find an escape, he almost longed for that coma that he had been in. At least then it wasn't real. This was real. A very real, very much chilling experience that he would not wish on anyone. 

In the next five hundred years, wars ensued. Fights and judgement was rife. Under the glorious rule of the Guardians, poverty did not improve, nor did starvation or medication. When he finally managed to escape, he found himself looking at a world that was no better than it had been under his rule. Perhaps even worse. More entitled, spoilt and reckless than he had left it. When fear did not walk the world, hate, greed, evil and suffering still did, in fact they did more so. 

Witch hunts had become a sport. 

He could see so many innocent women, young and old, accused of dark arts. Some perhaps had an affinity for magic. Healers and psychics of sorts. None of them deserved the brutality with which they were treated. What could he do, though? Fear was the one thing that could help him get back onto his feet. These superstitions kept him alive. Try as he might, there was so little he could do. 

When he tried to interfere, the hunt turned. The creature that was causing this discord and hatred amongst the people had sensed him and his attempts. 

Then back to prisons and punishments it was.

So it went and Pitch learned not to interfere with the works of other spirits. Both the Guardians and his other enemies were now of far greater power than him. But he found a way, he always did. Sneaking around, he tried to seek whatever freedom he could, gathering books, magical artefacts, human items and whatever he could get. Planning an uprising. He would be free one day. 

World War 1 was not that day. 

Almost he had thought it would be, but all that fear present amongst the dying and those that were afraid to lose their family members was overshadowed by North's every attempt to bring honour to brutality and justice to killing others. He even made a joke out of it, letting Christmas take place in the middle of a battle for freedom and power. That fool. It would never happen again, so he had even told North, who was shocked to see him alive again, and he had been right. 

World War 2 was also not that day. 

The Guardians chose to blissfully ignore the suffering and death's of many, but having come across an old enemy just a couple years prior, Pitch could not fully reap the benefits of this was, as he was too weak to even teleport to the place of most action. Neither had he caused both wars, that sort of large-scale event was beyond him. Besides, to him personally it had seemed counterproductive to kill the very people he required as a source of far. Even so, the Guardians were far too fast to point their fingers at him, and after North had alerted the others of his presence, Toothiana momentarily stepped out of her palace just to help the others put him back in place for a few more years. 

They had left him then, with the person he had thought could understand. The person he had spoken to for centuries, prior to his betrayal, to his choice of a new group of spirits that would replace him. 

The Man in the Moon came for him. 

It was not a heart-warming reunion and, to be fair, he never had expected it to be. What he had not expected, was just how humiliating it would be. 

And after fifty years spent on the moon, paying the price for a supposed rebellion - when he had never been a part of Manfred's forces in the first place - he once more managed to escape. He worked fast then, driven by his hatred, his spite and the anger he felt towards the bastard that kept him imprisoned so long, wishing all the suffering he himself had gone through on his arch-nemesis.

It was a blessing and a curse to find that he could corrupt Sanderson's horses, and hard work to re-shape the dreams into the more preferred nightmares, getting the form and solidness just right. Animating them and giving them a sentient, lively nature. It took almost two decades to perfect them and it had meant constant work. No breaks, no pauses and little energy had been spared for anything else. He should have known, with how much time he had been spending on his plans and his creations that it would only lead to his downfall. The Guardians had more energy and he had never taken the time to account for the children. Their belief had proven quite the force against him before, after all. It was their choice to believe in Santa Claus over the boogeyman that had led to his defeat. He knew it wouldn't be any different now, but he did not account for them possibly seeing the Guardians, what with them rarely being out in the field. 

He certainly had not taken into account a new Guardian.

That all changed when he fell. As he got dragged down into the lair, his nightmares turning against him like the fearlings did when he had failed them, he knew that this would not be the last Guardian Manny had in his arsenal. 

Still, he had the upper hand over Bunny. 

A whole village of Pookas hiding in the Earth's core. He wondered if the shock of seeing his family alive and kicking would freeze him up. Undoubtedly, it would do little to sway the rabbit. Likely it would only convince him to attack the dark spirit for kidnapping and holding his relatives. Not that it mattered. 

The real threat lay in Manny's plans. 

Manny, the real puppet master behind it all. 

He decided when people lived and died, much to the chagrin of all other beings, including the Lady of the Sun and Death herself. He decided when there was enough Guardians and what would happen to the rebels. 

From what Pitch had last seen, Manny had at least ten young spirits kept on the moon. Should Pitch stand up against him again, undoubtedly, he would have to fight against Manfred himself and those children.

Still, even as he kept to himself, beneath the earth, he was determined to rise up again. They could push him down all they wanted. Abuse him, accuse him, assume whatever they liked. Children or not, those beings were an obstacle to freedom. They chose to stand against him. As did the children of Burgess. Next time, he would not hold back, he would not spare traitors and people who opposed him. He would not lose. 

Narrowing his eyes at the globe, he glowered at the lights. 

Every last one of them would be snuffed out eventually. 

Each one of the Guardians would be defeated. 

Finally every last bit of his pride and his strength that he has lost would be regained and he would never again have to worry about being weak. He would no longer be invisible, or constantly humiliated by every other spirit. 

Some day, he might even be able to open Hallow Woods up to the world again and the world up to it. That one last thing he still had left was worth fighting for. Even killing for. He'd do it right this time. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just my version of events in Pitch's past, though it admittedly takes some bits from Guardians of Childhood and the RotG comics. 
> 
> I would go in depth, but I doubt I could write a full-length story on it. This is more just a summary of it.


End file.
